Bunker Hill and Other Poems | Page 8

his rider on his back,
They lead him, limping,
to the track,
Far up behind the starting-point,
To limber out each
stiffened joint.
As through the jeering crowd he past,
One pitying look Old Hiram
cast;
"Go it, ye cripple, while ye can!"
Cried out unsentimental Dan;

"A Fast-Day dinner for the crows!"
Budd Doble's scoffing shout
arose.
Slowly, as when the walking-beam
First feels the gathering head of
steam,
With warning cough and threatening wheeze
The stiff old
charger crooks his knees;
At first with cautious step sedate,

As if he
dragged a coach of state
He's not a colt; he knows full well
That
time is weight and sure to tell;
No horse so sturdy but he fears
The
handicap of twenty years.

As through the throng on either hand
The old horse nears the judges'
stand,
Beneath his jockey's feather-weight
He warms a little to his
gait,
And now and then a step is tried
That hints of something like a
stride.
"Go!"--Through his ear the summons stung
As if a battle-trump had
rung;
The slumbering instincts long unstirred
Start at the old
familiar word;
It thrills like flame through every limb,--
What mean
his twenty years to him?
The savage blow his rider dealt
Fell on his
hollow flanks unfelt;
The spur that pricked his staring hide

Unheeded tore his bleeding side;
Alike to him are spur and rein,--

He steps a five-year-old again!
Before the quarter pole was past,
Old Hiram said, "He's going fast."

Long ere the quarter was a half,
The chuckling crowd had ceased
to laugh;
Tighter his frightened jockey clung
As in a mighty stride
he swung,
The gravel flying in his track,
His neck stretched out, his
ears laid back,
His tail extended all the while
Behind him like a
rat-tail file!
Off went a shoe,--away it spun,
Shot like a bullet from
a gun;
The quaking jockey shapes a prayer
From scraps of oaths he used to
swear;
He drops his whip, he drops his rein,
He clutches fiercely for
a mane;
He'll lose his hold--he sways and reels--
He'll slide beneath
those trampling heels!
The knees of many a horseman quake,
The
flowers on many a bonnet shake,
And shouts arise from left and right,

"Stick on! Stick on!" "Hould tight! Hould tight!"
"Cling round his
neck and don't let go--
"That pace can't hold--there! steady! whoa!"

But like the sable steed that bore
The spectral lover of Lenore,

His
nostrils snorting foam and fire,
No stretch his bony limbs can tire;

And now the stand he rushes by,
And "Stop him!--stop him!" is the
cry.
Stand back! he 's only just begun--
He's having out three heats
in one!

"Don't rush in front! he'll smash your brains;
But follow up and grab
the reins!"
Old Hiram spoke. Dan Pfeiffer heard,
And sprang
impatient at the word;
Budd Doble started on his bay,
Old Hiram
followed on his gray,
And off they spring, and round they go,
The
fast ones doing "all they know."
Look! twice they follow at his heels,

As round the circling course he wheels,
And whirls with him that
clinging boy
Like Hector round the walls of Troy;
Still on, and on,
the third time round
They're tailing off! they're losing ground!
Budd
Doble's nag begins to fail!
Dan Pfeiffer's sorrel whisks his tail!
And
see! in spite of whip and shout,
Old Hiram's mare is giving out!

Now for the finish! at the turn,
The old horse--all the rest astern--

Comes swinging in, with easy trot;
By Jove! he's distanced all the lot!
That trot no mortal could explain;
Some said, "Old Dutchman come
again!"
Some took his time,--at least they tried,
But what it was
could none decide;
One said he couldn't understand
What happened
to his second hand;
One said 2.10; that could n't be--
More like two
twenty-two or three;
Old Hiram settled it at last;
"The time was
two--too dee-vel-ish fast!"
The parson's horse had won the bet;
It cost him something of a sweat;

Back in the one-horse shay he went;
The parson wondered what it
meant,
And murmured, with a mild surprise
And pleasant twinkle
of the eyes,
That funeral must have been a trick,
Or corpses drive at
double-quick;
I should n't wonder, I declare,
If brother--Jehu--made
the prayer!
And this is all I have to say
About that tough old trotting bay,


Huddup! Huddup! G'lang! Good day!
Moral for which this tale is told

A horse can trot, for all he 's old.
AN APPEAL FOR "THE OLD SOUTH"
"While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand;
When falls the

Coliseum, Rome shall fall."
FULL sevenscore years our city's pride--
The comely Southern
spire--
Has cast its shadow, and defied
The storm, the foe, the fire;

Sad is the sight our eyes behold;
Woe to the three-hilled town,

When through the land the tale is told--
"The brave 'Old South' is
down!"
Let darkness blot the starless dawn
That hears our children tell,

"Here rose the walls, now wrecked and gone,
Our fathers loved so
well;
Here, while his brethren stood aloof,
The herald's blast was
blown
That shook St. Stephen's pillared roof
And rocked King
George's throne!
"The home-bound wanderer of the main
Looked from his deck afar,

To where the gilded, glittering vane
Shone like the evening star,

And pilgrim feet from every clime
The floor with reverence trod,

Where holy memories made sublime
The shrine of Freedom's God!"
The darkened skies, alas! have seen
Our monarch tree laid low,
And
spread in ruins o'er the green,
But